Wilson's House Away From Home
by Kellygrishin
Summary: Wilson needs a place to crash after he discovers his wife is cheating on him. House has a spare couch. But maybe House is in need of something too. They are both about to discover that when one door shuts, another door will open.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – Wilson's House Away From Home**

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_This story takes place following episode 2/14 "Sex Kills" in which Wilson moves in with House after discovering that his wife is cheating on him. House is still depressed over losing Stacy. I found this fic I wrote back when episode 2/14 first aired and decided it had potential... as all you Slashers probably know already. I added a lot to it but this is only the first chapter. If you like it and want to know what happens next, please review!_

_And it goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that I don't own House MD or any of the characters. If I did, I wouldn't be posting on a fanfiction website. I would be informing Hugh that his next episode 'contains mature content intended for an adult audience'._

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James Wilson stepped into the dim, musty smelling apartment and dumped his luggage on the leather sofa. That was when he registered the state of the place. Every surface, the coffee table, piano top and even the fireplace mantle were littered with the remainders of his best friend's misery. It was an assortment of the worst kind; empty chip bags, empty liquor bottles, used dishes, empty pill bottles and what looked suspiciously like a few square wrappers littering the floor. It also seemed as if House had had some problems getting into a bottle of vicodin because the little white pills were now scattered _everywhere_ about the living room. Wilson tried in vane not to imagine it happening.

"Been having fun without me?" he asked, almost smiling as he replaced some cushions to the couch.

"Oh yeah, the mess… been meaning to clean that up," House said as he glanced around the room. Wilson could have sworn there was a touch of pride on his face.

House limped over to his piano, pushed some glasses aside on the bench, and then promptly added the plate from his peanut butter sandwich to the clutter.

"What's the matter with the kitchen sink?" Wilson asked and then hearing the harsh tone in his voice, countered with a look of amusement and raised eyebrows.

"I have a kitchen sink?" House asked, giving Wilson a bewildered look, then peering sideways into the kitchen. When he couldn't see it from where he leaned, he shrugged and limped slowly over to Wilson.

The two of them sat down heavily on the sofa and then stared at the dark TV screen in silence for a depressing amount of time. Then House leaned forward and grabbed two glasses off the coffee table. He held one of them in front of Wilson and stared with a pouty look on his face until Wilson took it from him with a sigh. As House reached for the only bottle that still had a few inches of scotch left in it, Wilson frowned and glanced into the glass he was holding to see the remains of some scotch already in the glass. He held it in the light and saw that it had lip smudges on it. Wilson thought about getting up and going into the kitchen to wash it. But then he thought, what the hell, and decided he didn't feel like getting up from that couch for another century at least.

House poured a tiny amount of scotch out for Wilson and was about to go ahead and fill his own glass with the rest, but his arm froze midway between them. The look on Wilson's face was the look of a man who desperately needed to either drown himself in a ridiculous amount of alcohol, or have tons of mindless sex with the nearest sympathizer. House opted for the former because he just wasn't in the mood for pity sex.

"I would have invited you over last night, but the hooker I hired was opposed to threesomes for some reason…" he said as he poured out half a glass of scotch for himself after almost filling Wilson's glass.

Wilson didn't even give him a look. He just stared at his scotch.

"I guess I learned my lesson. Never use Yellowpages to find a good hooker agency."

Wilson continued to stare at his scotch. If the man didn't take a drink of it soon House was going to personally force the stuff down his throat. House glanced around at the poor state of his living room and then began counting his vicodin. Some were scattered over the coffee table and the floor, a couple were on the hearth, one was on the mantle, and, oh, what was this? One beside his head on the back of the couch. He twisted his head back, picked it up in his mouth, then tilted his head backward and swallowed.

Much better.

In truth, the mess had been building up for some time, ever since Stacy left. What a strange coincidence, he thought. He and Wilson.

"Well this is cool," House said a little too loudly when the silence was starting to get creepy.

"Yeah," Wilson said with an empty laugh. "Maybe we should start a club, for depressed middle-age men." Wilson suddenly tilted his head back and drank down the entire glass without even a breath in between. House watched in wide-eyed amusement. Then Wilson put the glass down and the sound of the glass hitting the wood made him cringe slightly. Instead of leaning back, he put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and his eyes on the floor.

He didn't actually take his eyeballs out of his head and place them on the carpet. Just in case you were worried.

House was watching Wilson out of the corner of his eye as he sipped his scotch. For a moment a strange feeling that he was watching himself ran over him. He knew what Wilson was about to go through once he got past the denial stage, and it wasn't pretty.

House heaved a huge sigh then pushed himself up onto his feet. He swiveled on his good leg to grab his cane, then looked over his shoulder at the pathetic loser sitting on his couch.

"I'm just going to go order a pizza," he said, pointing with his left hand and his right cane in the direction of the kitchen. "I'll leave you to wallow in your misery and self loathing."

Wilson said nothing. Big surprise.

"And for the love of God, help yourself to a vicodin," House said in a raised voice filled with exasperation. "The little buggers can do wonders. Just look at me!"

House disappeared through the doorway. And oh look; he _did_ own a kitchen sink.

GHJWGHJWGHJW

After House ordered a pizza topped with everything, (yes of course I want anchovies you idiot. When I said everything, I didn't mean, all but the tiny fishes you just ran out of. I meant everything, including Coolwhip if you've got any) he sat down in a kitchen chair and stretched his aching leg out in front of him. He propped his cane against the counter and absently rubbed the muscle as he tried to think.

'If you're not prepared to look stupid, then nothing great is ever going to happen.' Those words just wouldn't leave him alone. He knew how many times he chose to make others out to be the stupid ones. It was just one more reason why Stacy was better off without him, and why he was better off alone.

Then his eyes lifted to the doorway and a voice in his mind seemed to say, 'Maybe not entirely alone.'


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson lay stretched out on the couch in the dark living room listening with eyes closed to the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. House was having a shower. Wilson was drunk.

Thud.

Wilson's eyebrows furrowed but his eyes stayed closed.

Thud.

Wilson decided to look up. The bathroom door was open a crack and a sliver of yellow light fell on the hardwood floor. There was something about the fact that the door wasn't completely shut that...

Thud.

Wilson rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and then slowly sat up. What the hell was he doing?

"House?" his voice sounded feeble to his ears. There was no way House had heard him over the spray of the water.

Thud.

Thud. Thud. Thud!

Wilson got up. "House? Are you alright?" he asked as he walked hesitantly towards the slightly open door. There was no reply.

Wilson stood just outside the door feeling dizzy. He leaned up against the wall and tightly shut his eyes, trying to regain a level head.

THUD!

House groaned.

Wilson shivered. "House? What the hell are you doing in there?"

There was a pause and then he heard a muffled word. It sounded like, 'showering'. Wilson sighed. He thought about how easy it would be to swing the door open and get a real answer. Then he remembered how drunk he was and pushed the thought aside.

***

House was showering. He was leaning his forehead against the cool tile wall with his eyes shut tightly, repeatedly banging his fist against it. He wondered if fracturing one of his metacarpals would make him feel better. He was trying to concentrate on the sensation of the icy cold spray. It was making his leg throb in that stiff, unhappy way. He wanted to forget the concept of temperature and just imagine being jabbed endlessly with thousands of tiny needles. Suddenly he heard Wilson's voice asking if he was alright. House opened his eyes and stared down at the drain, not really seeing it.

No. He was not alright. He was far from alright. He felt like he was being consumed by something monstrous and unrelenting. The vicodin was suppose to be making the pain in his leg bearable, but for some reason it was hurting worse than usual. He felt cold and it wasn't because of the shower. He felt internally cold. It was a feeling that originated in the pit of his stomach and was spreading. He felt like yelling, or breaking something, or...

House slammed his fist against the cold tile with all his might. White pain shot up his arm, making him groan as he felt something in his hand give out. He smiled through clenched teeth. It felt _so_ good. He closed his eyes and upturned his face into the spray, basking in this brand new pain.

Then he heard Wilson's raised voice from what sounded like right outside the door asking him what he was doing. House's breath caught in his throat and he moved out of the spray. He held his left hand under it so that it wouldn't decide to swell. At first he didn't trust himself to open his mouth and not yell at the pain. Eventually he managed to grunt out a single word.

"Showering." But he wasn't sure if Wilson heard him.

***

Wilson decided that whatever House was doing, he didn't want to know. Except that he did.

He stood leaning against the wall by the door in silence for another moment until the need to crawl into something warm and comforting overcame him. The floor was cold on his bare feet and the air on his neck and arms made him want to shiver. He glanced toward the couch, but even just looking at it made him sigh. Then his eyes moved toward House's bedroom and he couldn't look away. The utter darkness seemed to be drawing him in. Maybe House wouldn't mind if he slept there. House _had_ been strangely generous all evening. Wilson made his way carefully down the hallway in the near darkness, reaching out to the wall for support because he felt like he was going keel over. When he got to the doorway he stopped. Maybe he should just go back to the couch, he thought. But he knew he couldn't. Soon the thought of lying encircled in House's warm blankets and familiar scent was too much for Wilson to resist in his intoxicated and exhausted state.

He went in and gave a little grunt as he let the dead weight of his body collapse on the unmade bed. Already feeling half asleep, he groped blindly for the covers and pulled them over himself up to his nose. He breathed in deeply the soothing scent of the blankets and was pleasantly surprised by his body's reaction. A warm tingle ran through him, making his chest feel light and his stomach ache slightly, but in a good way. He rolled onto his side and was asleep within minutes.

***

House stood half under the spray of freezing water for a bit longer until the numb ache made him long for his bed and his vicodin. He shut off the water and stepped out onto the mat, water dripping from his shivering form. He only made half an effort to dry off with the nearest towel, which must have been Wilson's because House kept his towels on the floor. He grabbed his cane, flipped the light off and had his good hand on the doorknob about to step into the hall, naked and still dripping, when he remembered about the Wilson that was staying on his couch. One of the advantages of living alone was that he could go around naked, maybe even sit down at the piano and play something fancy while he was at it. But now there were restrictions. House hated restrictions. He decided, without giving it too much thought because he was really cold and a little light headed, that he wasn't going to bother with the towel. Wilson was probably passed out on the couch again and if he wasn't, House doubted he would remember much about the evening by morning after the amount of scotch he drank.


End file.
